Monday, February 9, 2015



> From:
> To:;
> Date: Sun, 9 Sep 2007 21:29:48 -0400
> >>"Robin Lee Oswald--is the chat room your invention? Are you happy with
> >>it? Is there a kind of sameness to all chat rooms?" Yes, the site is my
> >>invention, but no I don't think my board is like the rest, ha. I'm not
> >>particularly happy with it, but it's young yet, and I'll give it time
> >>before I decide whether or not to go back to blogging. Blogging is a solo
> >>act and I wanted to try my luck with building community. I've met a
> >>couple cool people who I talk to every day, that doesn't happen with
> >>blogs. "Why not another 'literary' site like troublewaits?" There's a
> >>literary forum on Our Common Condition, called We Are The Music Makers,
> >>it's just a place to post poems and stories and such. "Or how about a
> >>troublewaits- like site and a related chat site to help others, inspire
> >>them to put together their own defining place on the worldwide web?" Why
> >>don't you? Could you be any less supportive, Jeff? Christ. I wonder
> >>about your remoteness. Is it general, or just me? It's been hard to talk
> >>to you the last couple years. It's not like I haven't tried, and I guess
> >>I gave up. And this last six months you went missing scared me so much,
> >>I thought you could be dead, so I'm perhaps more self- protective than I
> >>would be in other circumstances. This is the most honest communication I
> >>think we've had in a long time. I have some grief regarding that and how
> >>things have turned out. I do think of you often and miss our good times.
> >>It's Sunday morning and I'm listening to Billie Holiday, it's really
> >>good. Take care, love, Robin.

Darius Smith
Beside the whirring rooftop air-conditioning machine while the sun sank prettily in a polluted Christmas Day Sky, 4 p.m. Shannen had arrived an hour early smoking half a pack of light cigarettes while she waited.

When she saw Molly emerge from the rooftop exit door she beamed, beautiful (Shannen's beauty almost didn't diminish when she frowned.)

Molly and Shannen were quiet a while, watching the city in the early dusk. Then, Molly turned to Shannen excitedly: "It's so obvious! Let's be superheroes!"

Shannen: "Oh yeah! Yes!"

They raced down the five flights of stairs, both ovulating, their swollen breasts adorable, splendid really under silk (Shannen!) and linen (Molly!) shirts!

Darius Smith
In the little story there are no men, no need to exert power, the next
episode will feature their adventures, never having sex with anybody but
deeply in love only with each other. Origin stories of superheroes sometimes
feature a resolution, a will to power. These picture stars will have more
fun than Spider-Man, maybe they'll solve major problems with a phonecall.
The fact that they are beautiful and confident and oblivious to
disappointment is a truly powerful position to begin your secret life from.
It's nice that you don't have followers. I seem to follow myself around.

From: Robin Plan
To: Darius Smith
Date: Sat, 3 Feb 2007 13:28:45 -0800 (PST)

I don't have followers and don't give a flip about my reputation. This is
supposed to do what again?

If you want to write fanfic about sexualized women you should think about
giving them agency, Jeff. Sexual agency. Re-read your piece with that in

Darius Smith wrote: Molly Ringwald and Shannen Doherty are longtime idols of mine. I confess this is my first stab at "fanfic." In your eyes I failed and offended, but to me I'm proud of how I kept my lust in check. Incidentally, YOU were a superhero in Oxford and early years in Austin. Now you mutter advice to your followers like, "Say 3 Hail Mary's and stare at your pill bottle for an hour." Would you rather be Jim Jones or Wonder Woman? I'd rather be Wonder Woman.

From: Robin Plan
To: Darius Smith
Subject: Re: A REPLY
Date: Fri, 2 Feb 2007 22:47:50 -0800 (PST)

Bullshit, you mock and trivialize the "superhero" characterization by
gratuitously sexualizing the women, and in gross biological terms
(ovulating). It's simple garden variety misogyny, Jeff. Ick.

And you have a lot of nerve to lecture me about happiness. You! Jeff,


Darius Smith wrote: It's an attempt to use the "creepy, dirty old man, voyeuristic" quality in a positive way. Sex is always on my mind since age 12 so I thought I'd be honest about it yet create a sex fantasy episode where no sex goes on, only ovulation. I'm a sexist, at least here, but really so many women WOULD be better off as superheroes. You make a fine martyr, Robin Plan, but really I wish you were happy (maybe you are and it's a secret.) Anytime I see a girl I find pretty, it throws me off my timetable, I stop, astonished. I really made an effort to keep this little story clean as possible, but of course a feminist still finds reason for offense. I love the feminists but I never expected them to love me back. Thanx for the response. Good luck in all
your future endeavors.

From: Robin Plan
To: Darius Smith
Date: Fri, 2 Feb 2007 14:27:51 -0800 (PST)

It's creepy, dirty old man voyeuristic and content-free.
You a sexist now?


Darius Smith
>From: Robin Plan
>To: Darius Smith
>Date: Thu, 8 Feb 2007 18:51:29 -0800 (PST)
>OK.. Be nicer to me and you gotta deal. Show me respect, don't be idiotic,
>don't belittle or come to me in more sorrow than anger and "observe" my
>former glory in comparison to the miserable loser I am today, in other
>words, don't project your bullshit onto me, do not disrespect me, period,
>or I will push you back. And stop wasting my time with content-free data,
>and of course I use the term data with more than a little irony.
>I'm at work, gotta run, Anna Nicole Smith died, shit.
>Darius Smith wrote: "Ass-holery?"--I admit I
>don't know what you mean, maybe because when I've been called an asshole
>by people I care about I feel betrayed. "Dick" is easier to take because I
>recognize it in myself when I behave certain ways, acting unfair and
>irritating, but its saddening to be dismissed like just another monster on
>the internet. Your earlier e-mails did convince me that the original story
>is weak, you could probably convince me of the worthlessness of just about
>any kind of effort I've ever made these days. The group home is
>intolerable, moreso everyday, my dreaded father is my unpredictable
>guardian, and the poverty is more crushing than ever.
> Allow me to reassert my devotion to you.
>From: Robin Plan
>To: Darius Smith
>Subject: Re: Look to Robin Plan!
>Date: Thu, 8 Feb 2007 06:36:19 -0800 (PST)
>Why don't you address the content of my note? The ass-holery?
>Darius Smith wrote: Resorting to cussing is
>ridiculous. Look elsewhere for enemies.
>From: Robin Plan
>To: Darius Smith
>Subject: Re: Look to Robin Plan!
>Date: Tue, 6 Feb 2007 16:03:21 -0800 (PST)
>I'm more disgusted than bored. The ass-holery, not available for that.
>What a dick you are.
Darius Smith wrote:
Thanx for the e-mails. Defending stories is not easy. Every one I've ever wrote could be subject to attack, the same with every other writer. If you have anything else to add, please do so. From here it looks like you finally became bored. Understandable. My worthless self is grateful for the attention, it makes me better at this pointlessness. My big plan is to scratch in a notebook tonight. Shaking the world I'm so sure.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015


"Cock Robin's Death Song" on All-Hits Radio, the Sun Ascending Stately an Invisible Arc, Girls in Summer Clothes Give Each Other the Eye. Cars Crash, Lovers Fall Out of Love, and All the While the Price on Sporty's Head Sky-Rockets!

The Killers Can'tFind Her, They Never Will, and Here's Why: One Hour She's Miss January 1962, the Next She's the Last President of the Society for Cutting Up Men. Oh, Also She Never Really Existed. She Will, Though. When Sporty Spice Makes the Scene I and Everyone Will Stop Breathing. No, Not Death, That's Not What I Mean. I Don't Know What I Mean. I Only Know That I Can't Wait. Hurry, Sporty! How Long Exactly Do You Expect Us to Hang on to What?

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


>>Wrongness is valuable.
>>To be mistaken is to be rescued,
>>Rescued from Jesus Doldrums
>>And a rage to succeed at I don't know what.
>>I mean, yes what a super-nice house
>>And rare so powerful motorcar,
>>Your children are healthy and I swear
>>I'm not exactly against any of this.
>>Only, only I despair to imagine
>>The grave-side eulogies,
>>All the precious DNA like virus monsters.
>>And yes, I know I'm the lowest
>>Kind of human being, please understand
>>That this human life
>>Looks all too much like a trap,
>>And my only real options are to love my trap
>>Or become a trap destroyer.

Sunday, November 9, 2014


She waits in a cement blockhouse,
Waits with one signal candle
Lit in an open window.
She has five gallons of gasoline,
A thousand packs of matches,
Ten lighters, and
She's beautiful.
Perfect, really.

She spies the shape of a man
Approaching in deep dusk,
Blows out the candle,
Sets aside oleo-smeared crackers,
And watches.
She opens the lid of the control-panel.
Studies her options.
And waits.

At a hundred yards the man stops,
Shines a flashlight in his face.
Two minutes later,
He falls into the woman's arms,
Under a starless sky,
Two sentries in love,
Their kisses like prayers
That this war will never stop.

Stalkers and serial killers are easy prey for this S.S./U.S., mystery
men and baby dolls and punks and punk rockers all are dispatched with
disarming alacrity, the cute, the lovable, none of you are America's
Favorite Pastime (what is? Swinging baseball bats at random skulls?)
My loveliness I wear like a death mask and for religion I worship a
corpse on a cross.

I am Sporty Spice. I fade and glow.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014


We exist to entertain you, to prop you up in the center of all reality, your little successes, your helpful words, when you walk to your car, we watch you get in and turn the key in the ignition, everything you do matters so much. We notice your hairstyles and choice of clothing, when you smile or frown, we see and our spirits soar or collapse. Will you wake up early or late? What t.v. show will you watch? Please reveal your hopes and daydreams, we've got to know, it's about you! You are our little god! Just think of your shattering importance! We gaze on your works and tremble...!

Monday, September 23, 2013


You certainly pack a wallop, I'm certain, you're capable of every effort, I bet you FAIL well, and your success is in emerging from infant-hood into this world ever at all, I mean thank you, I'm not kidding, I'm happy that you existed and since I've known you you have assumed the standard for me, you're the measure of my useless efforts, if I accomplish anything and I don't hate what I've accomplished, then I remember you.

A fun fact: appearances aside, I am ordinary, an assembly-line magnet and, well, you have an iron core. I love you like there's a first law I've always known that commands: Dash! Love Esther!

Saturday, September 21, 2013


Monday, June 3, 2013


You're told/You're sold/You're told/You're sold/You're told:/"Give it up before you ever try!"/I shrug/My drug/I shrug/My drug/I shrug/Not my problem when you decide to die!/It's so cheap!/You don't have to try!/Be like me!/Be happy when you die!/She said,/"Slow up!"/I said,/"No way!"/She said,/"How can I live until the End of Time?"/I stand/My band/You watch/You walk away./I want to disappear with you!/Here's your chance!/You only have to try!/Look away!/You might never die! [2002]

Mike Hummel, I'm donating all the lyrics on this page to M. Rep and the Quotas. Maybe find a teenager to sing the song as it seems like these words would cause embarrassment, like Burl Ives disguised as a snow man exclaiming "Happy Birthday" endlessly, belting "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas!" The Kool Penguin AKA Darius III

This time/This time/This time/This time/This time/I'm the boy with the popular way to sigh!/She said/She said/She said/She said/She said/I love this life so much/I wish I was dead!/There's no love!/Anytime at all!/There's no love!/Anytime at all!/This time/This time/This time/This time/This time/So you fell down?/Why don't you get up?/She said/She said/She said/She said/She said,/"I want to disappear with you!"/Here's my love!/Anytime at all/Here's my love!/Anytime at all! [1995]

Love, Dare-Eye-Us,Worthlessville UK/USA

Thursday, February 28, 2013


Try just once, Nicole. You're in the world, this world, only once, Nicole. In a summer resort house (!) you're complaining about your two-plus week vacation. Some mystery girl. Some super-heroine. Go to a mirror. Go see a worthless girl. Go see a clear-cut, open-shut case in support of mass white suicide.

I'm not angry, I'm not upset, I don't hate you. I don't even know you, really. Listen, listen for once, this once: no, there's no reason for you to exist; as far as you know, everything that's ever happened to you is illusion-- there were no good times, no bad times, only Saint Sameness, and our worthless senses of perception.

I'm not exactly sad, no, I am animated and realistic, masking my outrage for the sake of passing for a kind man, practicing kind acts only because there's no other choice available to me.

Don't look back, Nicole. And you probably don't want to look forward, either. We Love You.

Thursday, February 14, 2013


> >>In a shot-up govt. subsidized housing complex > >>One pro., one junkie, one suburban-type guy: filming the true debacle for the tenth time today. >>How many versions of this all-out worthlessness > >>Do you need to scan before I am credited > >>W/a way out? Maybe sharing needles is the answer.... > >>Maybe unprotected sex will equal success.... > >>Am I addicted to chlorine bleach? > >>Yes! I am addicted to chlorine bleach > >> > >>Little kids, old guys, last ditch efforts. > >>Last ditch kids, little guys, old, never a chance at success efforts. > >>Summer.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013


I walked to a deserted public library and used a computer for the first time. And strangely, I felt vaguely to blame for these new USA super-horrors, I can almost recall a public conversation in the Nineties about hating the way the grotesque World Trade Center ruined the NYC skyline, and wishing out loud that the Twin Towers be demolished. Just idle talk in coffee shops, discussion of the bomber that crashed into the Empire State Building in the forties, and speculation about weaponized passenger jets. Not sure if this is delusional or accurate.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012


The place where our stupid hearts/Beat out of our sad chests--/Into muddy grass!/This green!/Unearthly tonight--/Underneath the bank of clouds--/The Moon like a bone button--/So I'm not an animal./Maybe not a man, even./I don't know./I'm not worried.

Monday, January 16, 2012


Desire stands stunned at 4 P.M. She is no longer a Little Kid, she realizes. This Super-Star wants nothing more than food and a place to sleep. She has no money. Ordinarily this fact was nothing astonishing to her but today was a crisis. If only Sporty were here everything would be O.K., she thinks. It starts raining. Desire is determined not to cry, and she didn't!

Lori at the bar drinking White Russians, she watches herself in the mirror, just another drunk, she thinks. Summers in Universe City were intolerable: no air conditioning at home, nothing going on there at all really, not even a cat that needs to be fed.
In a photograph long lost, Lori wore her Girl Scout uniform, dancing for the camera.
She orders another drink, her sixth, and wishes she didn't feel like crying every day.

Desire spots her current enemy half a block up, she stops, stands stock-still until the idiot finally notices her. He is starkly panicked, crosses the street and walks away hurriedly in the opposite direction. Then Desire realizes that she needs to buy a Public Image Limited t-shirt!

Lori watches six black and white TV screens in a security booth at Garagetown Incidental. People shop, find something they want to buy, pay for it and leave.

While she watches Commerce-in-Action, she scans new catalogues, fills out order forms. Every five minutes she sniffs a line of coke, until the eight grams are gone. Then Lori switches to whiskey, sipping from a flask the rest of her shift. "So what?" she says to the empty room. The empty room comes up with no answer at all.

Desire, asked to leave RatDonald's for being "disruptive", hot chocolate at United Dizzy Farmers instead. Soon she stands, awed, at the Gates of Universe City.

Random loser guy in her bed, she wakes sickened, sneaks out of the apartment to go to work. Cocaine in her pocket--Lori has arrived!

This is all-out nowhere.
For ten-thousand invisible reasons, Desire stands stock-still in a parking lot facing a bank clock, 3:59, she waits. Is she waiting for a murderer? A rapist? A friend? No, she's only waiting for Four O'Clock A.M., her favorite hour of the day. Then Dawn, breakfast, maybe some sleep.
She stops to sit on some church steps to write a quick letter to Sporty Spice:

I know it must be great in Heaven Magic Land but if you could stand it we could use your Charisma Powers in Ohio. Disguise yourself and appear to me, you don't even have to tell me that it's you, I'll know. Rescue us, Our Sporty Spice!

Desire replaces the notebook in her pack and sets off on her tour of the City at the Very End of the Night.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011


The sun goes down and I hit the ground and I'm almost happy that's the way I want to be. At 4 a.m. I stood in front of the Coke Machine Now and at the Hour of Our Death. It snowed from two to four then rained from four to six. I laid awake stunned to discover that Catwoman might be the best movie I've ever seen. Witnessed Cincinnati Police Division commit murders to the Harper's Bizarre version of "Feelin' Groovy." Rumored soundtrack to tonight's "Unsolved Homicides" is "Red Rubber Ball" by the Cyrkle. An Ordinary Late Winter Morning in A Worthless Ohio Town.

Sunday, September 11, 2011


With These Mass-Mailings, I Hope to Trigger a Response to a Cryptic Phrase. You are Invited, "Anonymous." Maybe Only Wasted High-Schoolers Take an Interest in Crypto-Com. So!

"This is Your Super-Star Movie, You're the Co-Star, and We are Your Fans. We're Loyal, You'll Wheel Around to 'Tops,' Yes, You're an Attraction.

"The Audience is All Under-Aged at a 'Restricted' Feature. You are the Idol of That Audience."

One version: Remember--You are in a Life. Your Ambitions are Served. We Love You. You are an Exemplar of Your Point of View.

Saturday, September 3, 2011


Cincinnati Museum Center 31Mar2008
I was originally going to see this show with two friends but they backed out at the last minute and I was left to see it by myself. Standing in line an hour for the $23 ticket (I forewent the $3 movie) I observed the crowd and it was preternaturally normal: families with strollers, retired people, a few European tourists. The only anomalies were a couple of "Goth" kids who seemed excited about a corpse-fest and a bald chemo-woman with her grown daughter.

A long list of necessary rules were explained at the entrance followed by a giddy old woman ticket-taker who lamented that the high school biology classes that took the tour didn't take full advantage of "this wonderful opportunity," breezing through the exhibit in fifteen minutes. Why do teenagers only respect ghouls in Hollywood Horror Movies? Don't they know that this is a World-Class Haunted House?

So, young Chinese corpses (90% male) abounded, posed playing baseball, basketball, dancing, throwing discus. Body parts in cases, the bodies themselves out in the open, all eviscerated a hundred different ways. I experienced a range of emotion throughout the long tour (1-2 hours), a little overwhelmed by the end. I was cheered by the sight of the last corpse, a prosthetic man with a plastic heart and metal bones, a welcome sight after that endless procession of meat.

In the gift shop I purchased the $20 souvenir photograph book, commenting to the random clerk that the sense of our common mortality was staggering to me at that moment. Incidentally, Little Kids were everywhere you looked, and they were all having a blast!

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

GHOST RIDER No. 2, April, 1967.



Cast of Characters:
SAINT DARLENE LUSTIG, real estate agent.
OUR SPORTY SPICE, world-class loser.

The living room of a $300,000 aluminum house. Enter DARLENE.

DARLENE: I could quote Heller, I could ask, "Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?" Instead I'll quote Sporty Spice: "I'm the featured player of ten thousand snuff films!"

Enter SPORTY as glowing apparition.

DARLENE: Hark! My Favorite Martian appears to reaffirm mine faithlessness!

DARLENE begins to glow while SPORTY dims. At the brightest moment, DARLENE vanishes and SPORTY is alone and all too human at the edge of a forest at night.

SPORTY: God knows what's going on. [looks around] This has eternity beat by miles. [pause] I could be happy. [looks at audience] This play is over. Get lost. Now. [disappears into woods]

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

SUPERMAN'S PAL JIMMY OLSEN No. 142, October, 1971.

RANT by Cleophus Beasley

...Tim is in his early 30's, about 6' "3, around 140 lbs, missing nearly all his grill, V E E E E E R Y generous with his drugz...A good guy to know, if yer into that sorta thing...He gave Jen a H U G E habit...Before Tim, she was a "Good Girl" who didn't fuck with needles or hard drugs...She bartends two or three times a week at "Submarine Galley" (A sub shop/bar on Short Vine in Clifton )A typical night fer Tim is he'll get Jen's ATM card from her (Usually willingly), then he'll go to the ATM and withdrawal substantial amounts of cash (Anywhere from $50, to once without Jen knowing, $400!), buy mass coke (Usually 1/4 oz.), with intent to move (Sell) it to his "Network" of cocaine partners...Many times, he'll do deals right there in the "Sub Galley" while Jen is bartending (Typically, he'll lead the buyer into the '4 x '5 ladies john, and make the transact)...That's how it started...Now, when he get's his "Quarter "O's", instead of slinging it, he and Jen will blast off the whole 1/4 "O" in one sitting...It's been done like this fer a few months now, and in the mean time, Tim got arrested fer something or another(He wasn't holding when he got popped), he's ripped off most of the few friends that he had (One of whom tried to break Jen's front door in and damaged it), Jen's landlady demanded to Jen that Tim couldn't live there or even BE there...When Jen's not at her house (She lives in a one bedroom apartment above a defunct corner store, on the second floor), I've witnessed Tim (Who doesn't have a key) climb up onto a public telephone console mounted on the outer wall of the store, reach his arms up straight directly above his head and grab Jen's second story window sill, then he pulls his foot onto the sill, then, sure enough, the other foot, now finally situating himself in a crouched, fetus-like, huddle onto her (About five inches deep from the wall) window sill...All this done quickly so the snitch neighbors won't see (The neighbors across the street tell Jen's landlady about ANY Tim sightings) Next, he frees one hand from the sill and pulls the window up...Lanky, undernourished junkie shit, me thinks...

...That was about two months ago, and he still kicks it there, the front door now repaired...

...Most of Tim's old coke supplier's (Or wholesaler's) have cut him off fer reasons he won't tell me, but I can only imagine...It's to the point now, that I'm hooking him up with my people...He hasn't fucked up with them yet, but they all think he's a character, fer shit like going down to my people's area (Near McMicken and Dunlap in the West End) at 6:00am, all KEYED - THE - FUCK - OUT, with the High Beams on, doin the Cluck Walk...

...Concluding the Rant, April is an unemployed single mother of a six-year-old girl, who's going with one of my best friends, Tom...Tom is likely the most notorious heroin junky in Clifton...I've known him since 1990...After being released after a four month rehab stint, Tom wuz back to normal in no time immediately after his release...

I went to April's house in the mid - evening on a weekday...Tim was sorta half living at Jen's (Only when the Gestapo neighbors didn't notice him entering or exiting) and half living at April's, in the spare room ( a.k.a. "The Shooting Gallery" or "S.G.") at her place...

* S I D E N O T E *

...It's funny, I would bring food from my parent's house fer April and her daughter, and even cat food fer her cats...Once, when I came with food, and April wasn't home, and Tim was, Tim tried to con me into giving HIM the goodies (Sans catfood), by explaining to me that April is now receiving food stamps...

...When I got upstairs in the April's house, into her apartment, I first went into the kitchen...The S.G.'s (Which entrance was through the kitchen) door was closed...I heard talking inside the room and I knocked on the door, and heard Tim say "Just a minute Beas"! I think I told him earlier that I was coming...I remained in the kitchen for a few moments and then Tim came out of the S. Gallery door then I heard Jen's voice say "Hi Beas"...Tim started to shut the S.G. door when I caught it and opened it a bit and then heard Jen say something to me about me not wanting to see her...I assumed that she had some bad tracks or something like that (Tim tells me that Jen is difficult to hit, little or dead/dying veins, tough skin, scar tissue, abscesses)...I opened the door, and saw her sitting on the mattress on the floor...

...Not to sound like a meathead or a tough guy, but I've seen some shit in my life that few people have been unfortunate to see (Fresh death, Scabies, AIDS victims, V.D. awareness films in high school, my tracks, April's ex-roommate, Lauren [Lauren: 25ish Schizophrenic, Pregnant, Crack Smoker])...Jen, sitting "Indian Style" on the S.G. mattress, looked liked she weighed 80 pounds or close, she was bony...Her hair was stringy and unwashed...But all that's not shit...Jen had what looked like 100's of 1/2cm or so in diameter lesions, spots, bumps, whatever the fuck you call em, covering her face, neck, arms, everywhere...

...Seeing her like that in addition to her demeanor (She said she'd "Hit rock bottom"...) really shocked hell out of me...In my past concession, delusion, or maybe my selfish past denials of reality and things real, like Lauren, dead runs, etc.

* S I D E N O T E *

...I first met Jen at the Sub Galley, last spring...I was there with Jason Miltin...Jason and I were down in Clifton probably lookin to get into some shit er somethin...While we were waiting for nuthin', we stopped in the ...Milt and I sat at the bar and got a pitcher......It turned out that it was Jen's first day working there...The two of us (Milt, Me) hit it off with her as soon as we sat down...She seemed green to the "scene" (Whut's left of it) If she only knew all the things I've done there (Bought/sold/did/saw dope, gettin head in the ladies "room" (Galley ladies
room = '4 x '3), have thrown up on every square inch of the bar, saw my friend get tasered by police in the bar, saw songs come and go on the jukebox (Gimme Some Skin = R.I.P.), countless barfights...All before I was 21...

..Had fake ID since I wuz 16, when I got my 1st driver's license...


1.> Spray hairspray (Unscented, preferably) onto the face of a LAMINATED ID or license, over the date of birth
2.> Let hairspray dry
3.> With a BLACK felt tip pen, LIGHTLY tap over the tiny computer printout dots on the desired digit(s) on yer birth year (I was born in 1974...I lightly tapped the felt tip pen in a dotted "0" (Zero) formation over the "4" (Try to coincide with the existing dots as much as necessary) on where it said 1974 (The felt tip pen ink "0" should be a notably to slightly darker black than the remaining text on the license)
4.> While the pen ink is still slightly moist on the license, use a clean, dry piece of cloth to slowly, but repeatedly dab over the newly created "0"...The ink now should appear faded, and coincide closely with the hue of the other text on the license...


Friday, March 4, 2011


Sporty Spice in a slum district at 3 a.m. She got lost. She finds cold medicine in her bright white summer coat, washes it down with strawberry milk, and sleeps it off beside a supermarket.

She wakes at dawn, mutters "All right!" to herself, smokes clove cigarettes in front of the pawn shop until 9 a.m. when she trades her bracelet for five hundred credits.

Later, at the bus station, she studies the Departure Board, the cities representing friendship, love, adventure, the unknown.

She makes her choice, buys a ticket, and thirty hours later, Sporty Spice arrives, Queen-Like in her mind, in the City Where Everything Will Happen.

Friday, February 18, 2011


Driving in the poorest neighborhoods in Miami with Adam during the hottest part of day, he tried to get me to talk about why I was feeling so fucking bad, and I couldn't open my mouth and he was getting frustrated, almost angry, he told me to say the alphabet and I did, singing it, but I still couldn't tell him anything worthwhile.

So I can recite the 26 letters, tell you what year it is, drive a car, (even though I almost hit a man on a bicycle yesterday, didn't see him until he was in front of me,) wash dishes, (even though I dread meeting other boarders in the kitchen and prefer to wash my dishes late at night or across the hall in the bathtub.)

My whole life seems like a mistake, and the only way to see it differently is to be able to get some words on a page. It's difficult to get started doing this if I don't feel like everything I write will make people like me, I think that must be a newly-revealed trait. I want these people to like me without knowing me, just by a feeling they had from a few meetings, a conversation, letters, wondering about me-- AND JESUS GOD IN HEAVEN THIS IS HOKUM

Tuesday, February 15, 2011


Flowers are the Flags of God.
And where do I stand with God?
I race to escape His Displeasure,
Marching to the Corner Store,
Dressed to the Nines--

A Living Morality Play All Day,
All My Life.
So I breathe,
I tell Myself I'm real, I'm real,
I tell Myself I love my Life--

On Earth looking at Stars.
On Drugs looking at Stars.
We are Starlets.
Sometime Superstars.

This is not a Secret.
This is obvious to Everyone.

Friday, January 14, 2011


In this atheistic foxhole at the Siege of Babylon, of cigarette-machine revivalists, all over Home-Front Supertown--Dogfaces compare wrist-scars and arrest records while the world-champion worst-ever stand-up sit-down wake-up fall-asleep comic ever drowned at sea, devoured by sharks. Thank God.

Under surveillance for suspected crimes against humanity, I prance, flit, queen my way through deathcamp-sweet-deathcamp. Pop an escalator and we're all smiles for the executioner, pop a decelerator and look out world! We're avenging ageless all-agers striking hyper-dramatic freeze-tag-like, action-figure poses. Our battle-cry? Onward Unknown Soldiers!

A Mighty Fortress is Our Hysterical Wretch.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


Dear, Dear Nobody: So, if an Army-of-Malcontents took Sledgehammers to these Playskool-T.V.-Screens, I could still scratch my Pleas for-and-of Sporty Spice in a Notebook, Mail-Carriers might deliver my Postcards and Love-Letters, I mean, This Modern Format is a Massive Overkill.
Let's become Hyper-Modern, Right-Now, or let's just turn the Computer "Off" and leave it "Off."
Love, Whomever.